


Lilac in Me

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: When Gieve starts to cough up lilacs, everyone — including Isfan — just assumes that it’s due to his one-sided, unrequited affection for Farangis.[Written for PARS 2017 Day 1: Flowers]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I swear every time I write canon, it ends up being angst.

When the coughing first starts, Gieve doesn’t think much of it and merely supposes that he’s suffering from a common cold or a slight infection of the esophagus.

 

“Do you not realize, Gieve, that maintaining a healthy and able body is an important aspect of being the Shah’s loyal subject as well?” Farangis comments in her usual cold demeanor. “Your body is the temple of your spirit; if you mistreat it, as your questionable lifestyle seems to channel, your body weakens and your spirit becomes tainted. How will you serve His Majesty Arslan then?”

 

“Wise words from you as always, Lady Farangis,” the wandering musician chuckles as he bows his head at her direction.

 

“Perhaps all the travelling has worn you out at last,” Arslan says with a hint of humor, the corner of his lips slightly up-turned, but the concern is clearly written in the dip of his brows. “Will you not consider staying in Ecbatana for a few weeks more?”

 

“Do not fret for my sake, Your Majesty,” Gieve replies with a bright grin after taking a sip of the refreshing iced mint and jasmine tea that soothes the tickling at the back of his throat, “this is nothing a few days of rest cannot fix.”

 

A few seats down the long table, Isfan is glancing at him over the rim of his goblet, his topaz eyes watchful and subdued when Gieve daringly meets his gaze, his own lips twitching into a small, teasing smile at the observation that the usually aloof knight is looking his way.

 

Before the minstrel can open his mouth, however, Isfan’s attention has been pulled away by whatever Kishward is saying, and Gieve momentarily loses his voice as his body gives in to another series of hacking coughs a degree more intense than the last.

 

Despite his words, the condition persists for another two months, and not even the court physicians can figure out the root of the cause or find any herbs that can heal his ailment completely.  

 

And then one evening, the coughing just won’t stop no matter how much water he tries to consume; he can’t seem to catch his breath either, his throat raw and inflamed from the incessant coughing and his lungs feel sickeningly full, like something is growing from within — something alive, desperate to twist and crawl out from the darkness, roots growing along and tangling with his bones and muscles.

 

It claws its way up, up, up — seeking light, craving to be exposed.

 

He coughs until he tastes the sweet, metallic tang of his own blood, the bandages he wraps around his hands stained bright red when he spits.

 

He coughs until he can’t anymore and all he can do is regurgitate blood and saliva and… pale purple petals dotting in the sludge pooling a few inches by his feet.

 

When the coughing finally stops for the time being, Gieve shakily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits down on the nearest stool, his skin clammy and blotched red from the physical toil. He stares at the mess of diluted blood and broken flowers on the floor, sea-green eyes narrowing at the bitter realization.

 

He knows what disease he’s contracted — though he’s only heard of it from rumors and stories told in foreign tongues during his travels through the southern lands — and no physicians or sorcerers can cure him of it. He knows the cause of it, too (indifferent golden eyes that ensnare his heart, disdained curve of his lips that makes him crave what he’ll never have), and the very real possibility that he may die from it.

 

It may take years or only a few, short weeks; that’s the tragic beauty of it — the poetic irony of bearing the weight of unrequited feelings that ultimately leaves the unloved victim to die alone, asphyxiated by such intense affections that will never be returned.

 

‘Shit, I’ve gone and done it now,’ Gieve thinks, a speck of frustrated tear threatening to fall from the corner of his eyes.   

 

He’s not one to allow fickle fate to have her way with him, so he will not sit obediently for death to claim him.

 

-

 

“Those are lilacs, are they not?”

 

With a hand bracing against the pillar and chest heaving unevenly, Gieve hears the calm but careful tone of the court painter and tactician over the roaring in his ears.

 

A trickle of blood with an almost perfectly-shaped, four-pointed lilac blossom drips down the corner of his mouth, and he savagely wipes it with his arm, smearing red across his pale complexion.

 

He no longer wraps strips of white cloth over his hands and lower arms; washing them constantly has become a huge hassle with how often the coughing fits creep up on him nowadays.

 

Narsus hands him a handkerchief, and the musician takes it without a word, just a nod of thanks as he cleans his face and hands.

 

“I appreciate it, Lord Tactician,” Gieve murmurs, his usual melodious voice now coarse and dragging against granules of sand.

 

It’s been almost three months since the first trace of petals sprout from inside his body, and as the weeks go by, single petals grow into blossoms with complete corolla, the golden-yellow pistil, and filaments.   

 

Gieve tears his gaze away from the disgusting puddle of violet-tinted flowers drowning in a pool of his own blood and saliva; he’ll never get used to the sight of it, no matter how often this occurs.

 

He sags against the stone pillar, a hand running through his unruly locks as he releases a steady breath.

 

“So,” Narsus steps over the lilac puddle with no further comment and leans against the wall across from the uncharacteristically quiet minstrel, his eyes sharp and attentive as always, “who is it?”

 

Gieve lets out a startled laugh. It’s fruitless to hide anything from Narsus, so he doesn’t even try anymore.

 

“It’s not Lady Farangis, that I can assure you,” he admits with a breezy chuckle. Though he enjoys their humorous bantering, he knows the priestess never takes his teasing to heart, and so their repartee becomes that of a harmless, playful habit that everyone around them is used to, yet most of them might not comprehend the superfluous nature of it.

 

“I didn’t think it was,” Narsus smiles lightly, crossing his arms in a pleasant, unperturbed manner as he waits with the kind of patience Gieve has never understood or has the ability to achieve.

 

“Purple lilacs, in the language of flowers, apparently means ‘first emotions of love’,” Gieve tilts his head back, eyes focusing on the delicate carvings along the inner edges of the ceiling, his voice dripping with self-deprecation.

 

“Painfully ironic for a philanderer like you,” Narsus can, at least, appreciate the dark humor.

 

“Maybe it’s punishment from the gods above,” Gieve muses with a casual shrug, and he pushes away from the pillar, “maybe I’m not so favoured by Ashi after all.”

 

“Have you perhaps considered confronting him about your feelings?” Narsus doesn’t move from his own position, his violet gaze resting on the musician’s figure. “Lord Isfan may return your affections yet, and you won’t know until you try.”

 

Gieve is not even surprised that Narsus just _knows_.

 

“I’m shocked that you’d make such a misguided assumption, and here I thought you’d be more observant than that,” Gieve says.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Lord Isfan abhors me, so I think he’d rather confront me with his sword than with his heart,” he sighs in his usual dramatic flair that Narsus immediately sees through, and he continues in a more serious manner, “what it all comes down to is that I killed his brother — yes, I ended his suffering and I might have done it with the kindest intentions — but it doesn’t change the fact that Shapur died by my hands. I can understand why he’ll never accept me or open up to me, even as a mere friend.”

 

“What makes you believe that Lord Isfan hasn’t changed his stance about you? It’s been almost two years now, and even the hardest, most obstinate mineral will be weathered down by time eventually,” Narsus’ amethyst gaze softens when he asks in a gentler tone, “Have you two talked recently?”

 

“I hate being disappointed more than vomiting flowers,” he subconsciously brushes the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb, remembering the strangely aromatic fragrance of the lilacs as they trickle out of his lungs. The trail of blossoms always burns a trail along his trachea and esophagus, and spewing the flowers out is never an amusing experience, but despite the acidic burn of his throat every time, Gieve is even more frightened of approaching Isfan.

 

The knight with the fearless topaz eyes, and a smile so rare and precious that Gieve swears the first time he saw him laughing openly without any hinder or a care is when he realized that he has fallen for the man.

 

Once the words leave him — once Isfan knows how he truly feels — there will be no turning back. In a twisted way, it’s almost like he’s sentencing himself to death.

 

“More than dying?” Narsus challenges with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 

“You don’t know for certain that’s how it’ll end,” Gieve counters, but even he knows that his argument is a weak one. There may not be a lot of information about the floral vomiting disease, but there is only one conclusion that all books and stories have drawn on: the lovesick victim will not survive for more than a year if the feelings are not returned.

 

“Do you want to find out for yourself?” Narsus steps towards him, but the musician only flinches away, and it’s the first time the tactician has witnessed the usually boisterous man seems so vulnerable and defenseless.  

 

“Narsus, please. No more,” Gieve murmurs, backing away slowly before turning his back towards Narsus. “Let me handle this my way.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

-

 

“Lord Gieve! What happened?”

 

When Isfan finds him in the palace library, Gieve is dry-heaving and crumpled on the floor, forelocks plastered on his forehead with scarlet red and pale violet smeared everywhere. His cheeks and chin are streaked with his blood and constellations of petals, his hands and clothes are stained red, too, but even more blatant are the whorls of lilacs, splattered with beads of blood, scattered chaotically around the wandering musician.

 

Ignoring the spots of blood and flowers on the floor, the knight rushes towards Gieve and kneels down, wrapping an arm around the other man’s shoulders while he attempts to wipe off the blood and petals on his face using his sleeve.

 

“Let’s get you to the infirmary,” Isfan mutters after he’s gotten the majority of the mess.

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Gieve insists in a breathless rasp and reaches for the knight’s wrist to hold him still, sea-green eyes webbed in red and sight slightly blurred by remnant tears as he blinks blearily back at him, “the worst of it has already passed.”

 

“But—” Isfan is about to argue further because he isn’t blind or ignorant: he knows Gieve has been ill for months and he’s had suspicions of the type of disease the minstrel has caught. It’s useless to confront him about it though; they don’t converse much past the required business exchange, but from mere observation, even Isfan has enough understanding of Gieve’s personality to know better than to approach him when it’s clear that it’s an issue he wants to resolve in his own pace. “You’ve bled a lot… you should get the court physician to see you, at least.”

 

“They won’t find anything new or interesting,” Gieve assures him with a weak grin as he pulls himself to a sitting position, though he’s definitely not complaining about Isfan’s arms wrapped protectively around him at the moment, “I just need a brief rest. Will you stay with me until then, Lord Isfan?”

 

“Of course,” Isfan concurs.

 

He moves them closer to the arched hallway of the library. They will need to call a servant to tidy up later, but right now, the knight can only concentrate on Gieve’s condition. He seems to have taken a liking to leaning his head against his bicep, his eyes sliding closed with a sense of exhaustion that Isfan has never noticed on the frivolous and energetic musician.

 

‘How long has he been suffering on his own?’ he wonders but doesn’t voice out his question, brows pulled in a deep frown.

 

“I must apologize,” Gieve starts, and Isfan glances down at him. He can only see the top of his head, but he notices that in the center of Gieve’s palm and enfolded tightly by his frail fingers is a stem of lilacs still in full bloom.

 

“Why? You have done nothing wrong — not recently nor anything that I know of anyway.”

 

Gieve laughs, the sound silvery but feeble and it causes a few seconds of lingering coughs.

 

Isfan rubs his hand up and down his back in soothing circles, and Gieve thanks him with a grateful hum.

 

“I never intend for you to find me in such a shameful, and frankly, rather disgusting state,” Gieve continues when he regains his breath.

 

“There’s nothing shameful or disgusting about your illness,” Isfan tells him earnestly.

 

He’s not good at consoling others, and he’s been told he doesn’t have the friendliest demeanor, but he never sees Gieve as a man who needs someone to take care of him or comfort him. Perhaps he’s been too foolish, blinded by his own bias all this time.

 

“Look me straight in the eye and tell me throwing up blood and flowers is not disgusting,” Gieve pointedly glares at the vomited mess of red and violet before glancing up at the knight through his dark fringes, his sneer almost cold and tinged with a hint of selfish cruelty, “because it sure as hell _feels_ so.”

 

The frustration in his eyes and along the twist of his mouth is obvious, but Isfan doesn’t know how to approach this — approach him, this new side of Gieve that he’s unfamiliar with.

 

“I’m sorry that you have to suffer this illness on your own,” Isfan treads carefully, and his arm around the slighter man’s shoulders tightens just a degree, “if there’s anything I can do…”

 

“There’s nothing you can do,” there’s a sense of finality in his tone. “You’ve heard of this disease, have you not?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then you know there’s little you can do to help me.”

 

“But if you would just tell me the name of the person you are in love with, then maybe we can figure out a solution— “

 

A flash of heat strikes his chest, and he can’t tell whether his lungs are finally bursting from the overflowing flowers growing in his body cavity or that his heart has finally reached its limit.

 

Gieve pushes himself away from the knight and settles on his knees facing him, one hand having reached forward before Gieve realizes what he’s doing, and he grasps a fistful of Isfan’s tunic, the sea-green of his eyes surging like an untamed storm.

 

“It won’t—” he bites his lower lip hard to stop himself from going further, yet the words continue to fall from his mouth, like the lilacs that just keeps growing and filling up his lungs until he can’t breathe, until they spill all over in a devastatingly beautiful floral tempest, and Gieve is lost in the splendor of it, caught in the agony of it, “it won’t work because the one I love is you.”

 

Gieve has lowered his head after that unplanned pronouncement; for the first time in his life, he’s afraid. His body trembles beyond his control even though he feels his cheeks grow hot as the seconds tick by, and when he feels Isfan’s fingers, slightly cool and infinitely comforting, tracing delicately along his jaw, Gieve refuses to let himself hope.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Isfan’s voice breaks as he whispers, like shards of cracked ice over the once smooth and tranquil surface of a frozen lake.

 

“What difference would it make?” Gieve chuckles darkly without any humor.

 

“I would have tried to approach you,” he says, touching his forehead against Gieve’s, “I would have tried harder to get to know you better, and—”

 

“And?” Gieve urges, eyes slipping close. He’s filled to the brim with love and admiration and affection for the man before him, and all he can do is keep his mouth shut, the lilacs in him locked up until he can’t breathe or speak anymore.

 

Isfan places a gentle hand on the nape of Gieve’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer until their lips touch in a soft, fleeting kiss, the sweet fragrance of the lilacs after spring rain lingering in the air between them, a haunting scent that never truly leaves.

 

“I would have tried to fall in love with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I. I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry, I guess?


End file.
